


Ass Backwards

by ultrafreakyfangirl



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Sorry Not Sorry, stancy pregancy fic, takes place season 1 ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 03:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19760137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrafreakyfangirl/pseuds/ultrafreakyfangirl
Summary: Steve x Nancy pregnancy fic. Takes place during season 1. Does not follow canon.





	Ass Backwards

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. I just have to say something. Why - and whose decision was it - are people shipping Nancy/Steve/Jonathan as an OT3? Like I stan their friendship - whether that be Jancy x Steve or Stancy x Jonathan...but this is a real thing where all the Steve x Nancy fics are all just Steve x Nancy x Jonathan fics which you don't figure out till halfway through. Sigh. My question is does anybody have any good old fashion Stancy? Steve was such a bby cinnamon roll this season and he deserves the world and tbh I really miss him and Nancy together. So that's where this comes from. I was watching clips from season 1 and 2. :) Please validate me and let me know what you think in the form of kudos and comments, comments, comments, comments! Use your words dear readers! :)

That first twinkle of lights illuminated her bone structure, sharp and angular beneath a soft, nearly gauntly, pallor of skin. It made his breath catch. She was so beautiful. So damn beautiful. Yet, he didn’t deserve her. _He didn’t deserve any of this, did he_? He’s messed up her life. Their lives.

He wrapped his hand around her midsection and flattened his hand just below her bellybutton. The shirt she wore was large, made her physique less shapely, despite the phantom swell of her stomach. A swell that didn’t exist yet, because it had only been two weeks. Two weeks ago, they both realized that their lives would never, ever, be this way again, or go back to how they were.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell. She had big dreams. Huge dreams. Gigantic dreams. Medical School. John Hopkins. And he – well he didn’t really know. But it didn’t matter because nothing could happen now. Nothing ever would.

He knew her. Nancy Wheeler. He knew her well. _Too_ well. She would have the baby eight and a half months from right now and say that she would go back to school after their first birthday. Her mom would tell her to. And so would his. The baby’s second birthday would pass and then their third. He’d tell her to go; she wouldn’t listen. She would stay.

Then that baby turns eighteen and leaves home and…and that would be that. Maybe they would have another kid who was still needing their mother; maybe they wouldn’t. And in that case, in the case of an only child, Nancy would not know what to do, or how to cope. Maybe she’d have him to turn to, or maybe, she wouldn’t.

The point was, they were both so screwed. _Weren’t they?_ He wouldn’t appreciate if people lied to them. To him. To her. _Especially_ to her. He couldn’t handle it. He hoped against hope that people wouldn’t say things. That her mom wouldn’t tell her that she’d had Nancy that young – even younger – and made it just fine. That she wouldn’t say something cheesy like _‘I wouldn’t change a thing_ ‘or _‘you were the best thing that ever happened to me_ ‘because it was all utter bullshit. _Right?_

Of course, when their little baby is born, he’d feel guilty for thinking all of this. Of course, he would. He wasn’t Satan. Just right now, with her cuddled against him, biting anxiously on the sleeve of her top, staring blankly at the Christmas lights with a heartbreaking absence of awe, this was all so fucked.

He ruined their lives. They weren’t supposed to be this anxious. This damn stressed. They were supposed to be on break for the holidays, setting themselves up for their last six months of high school and filling out applications with hasty edits before the deadline (on his end).

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But things never happen the way you want them to. That’s just it. Except it’s really not. _Is it?_ They were one hundred percent in control of this. And were stupid about it. Dumb about it. Naive about it. Horny. They were so _god damn_ _needy._

They didn’t have to do it, right there in the library at lunch, against rows upon rows of classical novels like they were in a movie; like she was Rosemond Pike and he was Ben Fucking Affleck. (He only knew that they were classical novels because Jane Eyre had fallen onto the floor with one particularly vigorous movement. One that Nancy had loved. One that she had loved very much). 

Did she still love him? Could she still love him? _Really_ love him, after this - there was no answering that. Not right now. Her facial expression was pensive and he’s wondering, before he can stop himself what it is that she’s thinking about. If she’s seeing herself in another life; another life where she’s _not_ pregnant, driving a fancy car and kissing Jonathan Byers in the passenger seat. With tongue.

He tensed up. Scolded himself. Berated himself for doing this to her, again, for the four hundred and fifth time since he’s found out.

That number was 100 percent accurate and he was proud of that. It was the one thing he could ever be proud of again, and if he ever tried to be proud of anything else, he’d get himself back in check. He would simply check back into the reality of a screaming infant, a sleep-deprived, bedraggled Nancy, only one-tenth of the vivacious person she’d been, and the thing he was proud of would never cross his mind again.

“Steve?” 

He put his other hand gently onto her shoulder not wanting to startle her, still uncertain if she was _really_ there, with him.

“Yeah?” 

“I…I just…”

He sucked in a small breath of air and bit his lip. There was something _not right_ about her. It’s been there ever since she’d called him that day.

“Nancy…are you okay?”

Then it was her turn to suck in a sharp intake of air as she shook her head. He was so close to her that he could see those baby hairs move, feel their downy softness against his neck, when she uttered a response.

“No.”

He’d been expecting this answer. Of course, he’d been. Hearing it though, was still like a sucker punch to his gut. No. It was more painful than that. A sucker punch to his _ball sack._ It was what he deserved anyways, but it was no sudden feeling when he wished for it to be in the form of a _literal_ kick to the balls; he couldn’t bear to have her hurting just so he could hurt, even more. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t how it was supposed to be. _But what was that clichéd saying?_ Everything happens for a reason. Such bullshit. It was all such, god damn, motherfucking, _bullshit._

Nancy was fond of that word. Actually, Drunk Nancy was fond of that word. Sober Nancy was classy, too classy to have a mouth on her. At least, in every other place and time that didn’t involve his head in between her legs.

_“Christ…Stop it already with this **bullshit** and fuck me!” _

_“No.”_

_“Well then…go to hell, Steve Harrington!”_

_“Only if you’re there with me, pretty girl.”_

Maybe that’s why he had started to use it so much. It’s like that belief that some people have, where if you spend so much time with someone, you’ll be bound to adapt their mannerisms.

Maybe, if he wasn’t such a tease, such a _moron_ , and withholding sex from her like he was _God,_ they wouldn’t be in this situation. There would be no situation to be in. She could be concerned about acing her trig test, and he could be coming to terms with the fact that he was probably going to end up working for his slave driver of a father for the rest of his life.

Except there _is_ a situation. He hadn’t thought they were. Except, yeah, they really are _that_ fucking stupid.

“It’s alright,” he leaned down to kiss the top of her head, her curls mused from her shower, not yet completely dry. “Neither am I.”

…

“I love this song,”

She spoke directly into his ear and her voice had wavered some. Or he imagined that it had.

It was a slower song, set to a seductive bass beat, and she was encircled in his arms as they swayed back and forth, probably looking like idiots. She’d somehow convinced him to dance with her, dance with her like they were at prom or something, and not that he was complaining, she seemed to have made it her mission not to leave his side at all. Not even when Jonathan asked if he could give her a ride home – _because she looked a little off -_ after Steve had shot gunned one too many (to drive) beers.

Steve wasn’t oblivious. He noticed the look Jonathan had shot him when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crunched the beer can in his fist. And the one he’d given Nancy, too. It was sad, really, to think that this guy was still pining for her. _That was **it** , right? They weren’t like doing anything behind his back. _As far as he knew, they weren’t, and he trusted her. So, he never said anything about these looks. It wouldn’t help any. Just start a fight. And he hated confrontation. Especially when it wasn’t entirely warranted.

“Me, too,” he agreed. As his grip got a bit tighter on her waist, he felt her squirm. “Are you okay?”

“Uh – “

He watched her gaze shift from towards the stairs, where Jonathan had just headed, he observed _alone_ and somewhere near his head. She didn’t actually look straight at him. He tried to meet her eye, tried to shake it off, but he couldn’t, neither one.

“Uh, no. I have to use the washroom. I – uh – excuse me.”

With those words, she left his arms in a rushed flurry of perfume and heat and he watched her ascend the stairs, almost two at a time.

Five minutes later, he saw Jonathan rush down them again, a weird look on his face. As he got closer, Steve saw that it resembled worry.

“What.” Steve grabbed his shoulders, phrasing his question as more of a statement because he had a feeling he already knew the answer. “It’s Nancy, isn’t it. Byers, what the hell – “

Jonathan was slowly paling. This wasn’t boding well. “She needs – you need to go up there, man.”

Shit. He knew she’d been acting weird. “Where? Go _where?”_

Jonathan pushed him towards the stairs. “Bathroom. Second door on the right.”

Steve didn’t even say anything in lieu of his thanks before practically taking off in a sprint. And low and behold, there was Nancy, curled up on the bathroom floor, her lips parted and her hands shaking. _What the fuck…?_

“Nance!? Oh, god, Nance, say something are you – are you drugged!? Are you seizing!?” He couldn’t help the hysteria from creeping into his voice.

“Fucking Byers should’ve called a god damn – “

“No, Steve, _no.”_ She pushed his hands off of her and sat up, all but shoving something in his hand. “Other than the fact that my life might be one hundred percent, _totally,_ over, I’m…fine.”

It didn’t take too long for him to figure what she meant because when he looked down at his palm, there was a positive pregnancy test nestled inside it.

He knew he couldn’t yell. Couldn’t scream, or swear, or punch something, because there was his girlfriend, the love of his sorry ass life, crying tears so violently that her entire body was shaking, and she could barely breathe. She was sitting crisscross applesauce on Carol’s bathroom floor, right in front of him, looking as helpless as Nancy Wheeler has ever looked, and he just knew that he had to protect her from feeling _so damn_ _broken._

“It’s okay, pretty girl…”

Steve took her silently into his arms, stroked her hair and hushed her as she sobbed. They were in love and nothing would stop them. They’d figure it out along the way. He kissed her head.

_They would._

…

Their eldest son was seven now. A whole seven years old. Her little Christopher. Every birthday he’s ever had, she’s looked him straight in those beautiful blue eyes, their almond shape a clear echo of her husband’s, and beg him to stop growing. This past year, he rolled those eyes and told her that he _couldn’t help it._ Whatever.

As the song changed on the radio sitting, for the moment, on the mantel, she felt herself perk up. This carol was one of her favorites. Always had been. Ever since she was Christopher’s age.

_Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens…_

She’d began to hum softly, at first unconsciously but then she started to sing. Louder. A little more dignified as she heard her own voice carry through the foyer where she was wrapping gold tinsel around the banister. She didn’t particularly like it. It felt childish and gaudy, messing with the classiness she had strived for that first year. Nicholas though, their second oldest, loved it, although she didn’t know why, so, as it went, and she’d admit this to no one, the tinsel stayed.

As if pulled inside by her thoughts, the little boy came barging through the door with his father in tow, an absence of tangled lights in both of their hands.

“Wow, pretty girl. You’ve got some serious pipes. I had no idea.”

Nancy laughed. “Sure, you didn’t. You’ve got to hear me singing in the shower every morning. Don’t pretend you don’t. Don’t save me from that embarrassment, please.”

“No, seriously.” Steve raised his hands, before wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her, softly. “There’s no sarcasm there, really.”

“So, Nicky,” she asked, reciprocating his hug with a kiss to the side of his head. His mop of silky hair was damp from the snow and he smelled of outside air and cologne she recognized as Steve’s. “You and Daddy got the lights up, no problem?”

With a nod, Nicholas took off his gloves and jacket, the rouge of his cheeks already beginning to fade. “There were a lot of knots, but we got ‘em.”

She clapped her hands, accepting Steve's hand as he helped her down from the step stool she had been standing on. “Awesome job you two _men_.”

Her son beamed with pride as he hung up his jacket without being told. At five, Nicholas thought of himself as a _man_ now, zooming straight past the ‘ _big boy’_ complex that had been typical of Christopher. Yet, Nicholas had always seemed to be a bit more sensitive than his brother. Funny how that worked.

Just then, as her son went off in search for his brother, who was upstairs cutting out snowflakes that were later going to be hanging from the ceiling – as a special thing for Auntie El, the baby gave her ribs a swift kick.

“Woah there. What’s up little girl?”

Steve placed his hand on her belly, covering hers, and smiled at her.

“Speaking of little girls, where’s Maddie?” he asked, his gaze darting from the vicinity of where they stood, to the kitchen as if expecting her to pop up out of nowhere.

“She’s in the den,” Nancy said, squeezing his hand. “She’s here. In the house. She’s okay.”

Madeline was the munchkin of their family. In three months, she would no longer be the baby, and she’s been having a hard time adjusting to that, so Steve convinced her that even though she wasn’t the baby anymore, she would always be _Mommy and Daddy’s little munchkin._ And it worked. It stuck. She has also been their only daughter for the past three years and so Steve couldn’t help but worry about her a little extra. It warmed Nancy’s heart.

She’d had her first baby at eighteen years old. Christopher Elijah Harrington. Steve had cried – not just about the birth of his son but also because their son had his last name. She held their baby boy on her chest and watched as warm tears fell down his cheeks and when he leaned down to kiss her, she could taste them on his lips.

Their second baby, Nicholas Samuel, was born in the springtime of ’86, the year Nancy turned twenty-two. After Christopher’s first birthday had passed, with cheesy party hats and a vanilla _Barney_ cake, Nancy knew that she couldn’t bare it if he grew up without a sibling. And age gaps weren’t her thing. She wanted her children to grow up together. And Steve didn’t have any qualms about that.

Except, when Nicholas turned two, he had one, and only one. He wanted a daughter. He told her that yes, it was kind of dumb, but El and Max rubbed off on him, and he wanted to have a girl of his own. She obliged, because it was so sweet, like him, he was always so, so, sweet, and they began actively trying three months later. She got pregnant right away and when they found out her gender, they also decided on her name. Madeline Eleanor Barbara. A piece of El and Max. Nancy loved them too. Those girls were as sweet as anything. And of course, Barb.

Here’s the thing: she wasn’t in a loveless marriage, stuck in a rut with three, almost four, kids who consistently get on her nerves, and no job prospects.

She loved Steve Harrington with every piece of herself and more and it’s been like that since she was sixteen years old. And her kids, boy, oh boy, those kids, were her prides and joys and she didn’t even give a shit that she sounded just like her mother.

And she’d get that career. She would. It was an upside to having kids young. Kids first, career to follow. It may be a bit wayside from the status quo, but she was proud to say that _Nancy Pretty Girl Wheeler_ , as Steve has been so fond of calling her since they were high school students (with teeming affection, not to worry), has adjusted to that. In fact, _Nancy Pretty Girl Harrington_ lived her life ass _backwards._ And she wouldn’t dream of doing it differently. She loved it.

Steve was the best Daddy. And he knew that too. Classroom volunteer, playground buddy, bedtime story reader. She wouldn’t dream of doing this parenting gig with anybody else.

“Merry Christmas, pretty girl,” Steve whispered into her ear.

“Merry Christmas, babe,” she said back, giving him a chaste kiss just as the doorbell rang.

Right on time. There was the rest of their Motely Crew.


End file.
